


Confer

by skyholdherbalist



Series: Holystone [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 11:16:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15193589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyholdherbalist/pseuds/skyholdherbalist





	Confer

Fresh snow from the night before had buried all the signs of work in Haven. It hid the muddy tracks of wagons bearing supplies, the ash and clinker from the smith fires. Soft piles topped every surface, every roof, and the village looked like a poorly done winter landscape, where the artist hid her technical sins in snowdrifts. But even early in the morning, work had begun again, and the snow would not be white for long. 

Bryn had not been tasked with anything yet. It was good to have some time to himself, however early or sleepy. He ventured out of his cabin, into the cold. The freezing air was still, a small mercy. He had dressed in rough layers, covered them with a thick coat, then wrapped a knotty wool blanket—a favorite of his, traded to him by a pirate for a rare bottle of deathroot liquor—around his shoulders and neck. The blues and purples of the yarn had only faded a little over the years. He wrapped his hands around a mug of spiced tea from his dwindling stash, and let the steam warm his face. 

He had been too long in the warm islands of the north. The cold was getting to him. And the older he got, the worse it felt. 

Trudging through the lightly packed snow, he wandered along the path that led to the village gate. He pushed open the heavy doors.

Here the operations took shape. Commander Cullen barked orders at his men and women, while a more junior soldier led them through their drills. The dull thwack of wood swords against practice shields made an ugly drumbeat around them. It was joined by the clanging hammers of the smith, the sizzle of quenching metal. Runners padded over the snow, quick and quiet as hares among the noise of the Inquisition at work. 

And to the side of the gate, outside his tent, stood the Iron Bull. He watched and listened. His sharp eye took in everything, filing it away for his reports, no doubt. But he was a keen observer by nature, Bryn was sure, as well as training. Bryn had known many Qunari, in Rivain and Par Vollen—fellow sailors, friends, lovers. They didn’t last long among the _bas_ if they were not measured, and careful, for their own sake. The chaos of the world ate at their patience. Bull seemed as though he could thrive anywhere. 

Bryn took a spot next to Bull, who did not react, and sipped his tea. “Morning, Bull.”

Bull cut a quick glance toward him. “Nice scarf. Cold?”

“Yep.” He shivered even in his thick clothes. “You?” 

“Nope.” That should have been obvious, as Bull stood in the chilled air in a thin pair of pants, light boots, and nothing more.

“Ever get cold?” Bryn asked.

“Nope.” 

That was a stupid question. Perhaps it was too early for conversation. But Bryn was awake, and so was Bull, and they were both here. 

“I remember when I was in Par Vollen,” Bryn said, “I’d have given anything for weather like this.” The humidity made everything sticky, the fruit rotted in the trees. As soon as you drank anything you’d sweat it out. “Of course, now I’d enjoy that kind of warmth.” 

Bull half-turned to him, but kept his eye on the surroundings. “Been to Par Vollen, have you? When was that?” His voice was affably curious. 

He begn to answer freely, to tell some tales of warm island sailing, anything to distract from the cold and wake himself up. But he stopped himself. Something wasn’t right about Bull’s question. “Surely,” he said, “you know I’ve been to Par Vollen. And when. Right?”

“Yeah,” Bull said, laughing. “But I thought it would be polite to ask anyway.” He tugged at the high waist of his pants as his line of sight moved toward horses being corraled into their pen. “Some people don’t like it when you know too much about them. Gets under their skin.”

Bryn shrugged. “My skin’s pretty thick. Hard to get under.”

“That’s good.” Bull shuffled his feet and shifted the thick leather armor at his shoulder. “Been to Seheron, too.” He turned to look at Bryn fully. “Right?”

“Just the coast,” he answered, aware that Bull likely knew everything he was about to say. “Picked up a shipment from a Tevinter spice plantation.” He sniffed his mug of tea. It was stale compared to the freshly picked spices in the islands, to the dried cords of badiam and elakkai that hung in every tea shop. “Best run we ever did, because the ship smelled nice. For once.”

“Didn’t even step foot on the island?” Bull asked.

He had not even wanted to. He remembered the elven slaves who brought down the bundles of cinnamon, the barrels of nutmeg. How worn they looked. How they had stared at him on the ship deck, free and happy. How guilty he felt. “Nope.”

Bull grunted. “Just as well. It’s a dangerous place.”

Around them, the soldiers screamed in mock rage as they battled each other, boulders were rolled toward the trebuchets, and the smith pounded at steel which would become a sword. All this noise in preparation for war. “Where isn’t dangerous?” Bryn asked.

“A few pockets here and there.” Bull scratched at his ear. “Place south of Kassel in the Anderfels that’s nice and quiet. Been there a few times. A little blighted but it’s kinda pretty,” he said. 

“On the river? Think I know the place.” That little village in the valley, with the good sour ale and the sharp, briny pickles. It was as far into the Anderfels as he had gone, and even there the darkspawn were still a threat. He wondered at Bull’s definition of nice and quiet.

Bull nodded, but said nothing. Bryn stayed quiet, too, and drank his tea. It was growing cold. 

“You’re right, though,” Bull said finally. “Things are bad all over. Especially now.” He huffed, a frustrated sigh. “Guess it’s up to us to fix it.” Bryn watched him as he began to crack his thick nuckles. “You’ve got a good team here.” Crack, crack. “They’re willing to fight. Treat them right and they’ll keep fighting for you.” 

Bryn hesitated to answer, not wanting to argue or agree. This was not his team. And they were not fighting for him. They were all fighting together, for survival.

He had never been a leader. Never a captain, or a boss. He was first mate material. Give him an order and he’d see it done, see that others did their part. Him giving orders? Anything he could order someone else to do, he’d rather do himself. He didn’t mind getting dirty, or getting hurt. He wasn’t going to sit by and let anybody die for him.

“That’s advice for Cullen, I think,” he said. “Or Leliana. I just do what they ask.”

Bull looked toward the mountains in the distance, a faint smile on his face. “Keep telling yourself that. Meantime, people are lining up to join _your_ army. Not Cullen’s.”

He turned to face Bryn. “Listen, I don’t pretend to understand this… Herald of Andraste shit. I don’t even want to.” The look on his face made that clear. “But I do know how to get people to fight for you. Doesn’t whether they’re soldiers or mercenaries.” Bull scanned the line of troops by the tents, their breath visible as they went through their exercises. “It isn’t money, or glory. Those are nice. What you need is respect.” 

A soldier. That was something he never wanted to be. Too close to the hunting bands at home, so careful and serious. No freedom. He admired them, but it was not who he was, or had ever been. “I’ve got nothing but respect for them,” he argued. 

“Yeah, you respect them.” Bull shook his head. “And they fear you as much as they need you. That’s not respect.” He folded his arms, his jaw set tight. “You want to win this thing? You’re in charge. So act like it.” He shifted to gaze again toward the distant hills. “Do them the favor of letting them know you’re worth it,” he said. “Even when you don’t think so.”

Bryn did not have an answer. His mind fought what Bull said. It clenched around an old idea of himself, who had been for decades. It was sunny and warm and on a ship somewhere in Rialto Bay. Here, he was cold, and tired, and wrapped in an old blanket. He held onto his tea and looked out into the same distance. “That’s good advice,” he said.

Bull nodded. “Yep.”


End file.
